The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins

by Antonia Hodgson

  ‘When will the pardon come?’

  ‘I don’t know. Late, I think. Budge said you must be patient.’

  I lowered my glass. ‘I am sentenced to hang in ten days.’

  Tears sparkled in her eyes. She seemed so anxious that I found myself trying to reassure her, acting in a more confident manner than I felt. I lit a pipe and told her of my plans to write a full confession of all that had happened to me, in the hope that one day it would help to clear my name. She did not ask why I did not speak out now and save myself – Betty did not ask questions when she knew there could be no answers. She promised to find a way to smuggle the journal from my cell when it was done, and to keep it hidden. I trusted her to read it and to understand its secrets – to know when it would be safe to pass it on to those who should know the truth.

  I took Betty’s hand, unable to speak for gratitude. How many nights had she served me my punch and lit my pipe these past two years? Always quiet, always watching, anticipating what I needed. A bowl of strong coffee, most days – and a kick on the arse. She had sent me home more times than I could remember, while I protested I was good for one more drink, one more card game, one more throw of the dice. Now here she was when all my friends had abandoned me.

  She slipped her hand from mine.

  ‘Don’t leave,’ I said, and my voice crumbled. ‘Please.’

  She hesitated. Shifted closer. It was enough. I gathered her in my arms and held her as if she were a rock in the ocean, the only safe harbour for a thousand miles. Found her lips and kissed her, because I was lost and afraid. Because Kitty was so far beyond reach.

  A key rattled in the door. ‘Gate’s closing,’ the turnkey hissed.

  Betty took my arm, whispered in my ear. ‘If you find another way to escape, take it.’

  I nodded, though we both knew the pardon was my only hope.

  She raised her hood, masking her face from the turnkey. Her eyes were soft and sad. ‘Fare well, Tom.’

  I gave a low bow; lower than I would have given the queen. By the time I looked up, she was gone.

  Tom. Only now, as I write down Betty’s last words to me, do I notice it. She had never called me by my Christian name before. I was always sir, or Mr Hawkins. We might flirt and tease, but I was never Tom. I stare at my name on the page and I wonder about her visit. Was it truly a kindness? Or something more devious?

  Well, Betty – am I right to doubt you? Nine days I have waited for the king’s pardon. Nine sleepless nights. When the waiting became unbearable, I began to write this account as a distraction, from the first moment I heard Alice Dunn scream Thief! until this moment here, remembering that final kiss and the look in your eye when you called me by my name. Fare well.

  Now, on the eve of my hanging, you send word at last – Be patient. Always the same message. Will the pardon come on the morrow, as they load me on the cart? Or is this merely a cunning way to keep me quiet until the hangman silences me for ever? Tell me – if I smuggle these pages to you, will you truly keep them safe? Or will you burn them and all the queen’s secrets with them?

  I hope, my dear, that you have not betrayed me.

  I had planned to end my story here. I have spent so much time writing that I have neglected everything else. My hand is cramped from long hours holding a quill, my fingers stained indigo-black with ink. My past is written, but at the expense of my soul. Three others are set to hang with me tomorrow. While I have sat scribbling in my cell, they have spent long hours praying and begging God’s mercy for their sins. They are ready for their journey.

  In vain the Reverend James Guthrie has visited me each day. He is a pompous man, well-pleased with himself. No, that is not just. He has rescued countless souls from damnation. I only wish he did not brag about it quite so much.

  It is Guthrie’s duty to write an account of every prisoner hanged at Tyburn. He recounts their short, squalid lives with gleeful disapproval, then casts himself as their saviour. By the time they reach the gallows they are weeping with gratitude. They rejoice at their redemption, eager to leave this world so that their souls might fly to heaven.

  These, at least, are the stories Guthrie likes to tell. There are some obstinate sinners who refuse to play his game. They repent in private or not at all – drinking and whoring their way through their final days. He does not like these stories so well, but he can still bend them to his use. Examples of the witless fools who will burn in hell for their ignorance and obstinacy.

  But what is he to do with a man such as me? A man who refuses to confess? Who protests his innocence, even as he is led to the gallows? There can be no repentance without guilt. No salvation without guilt. Instead there is only doubt, thin but persistent. What if we are wrong? What if we are hanging an innocent man?

  There are no lessons to be learned from such a story. At least, not the sort of lesson the Reverend James Guthrie wishes to teach.

  Guthrie visits my cell not to offer comfort, but to seek resolution. And every day I disappoint him. He tells me I am bound for hell. I correct his quotations from the Bible. He reminds me that Pride is the greatest of all sins, and leaves.

  What will he write of me, I wonder?

  This afternoon I summoned John Eliot and directed him to write my will. I do not have a great deal of capital – ten pounds at most. It should be enough.

  When I named the beneficiary of my meagre fortune, Eliot raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘How will I find the boy? He’s disappeared.’

  ‘Aye. He’s good at that. He’ll magick himself back once I’m gone.’

  Eliot scratched the name onto the paper with a reluctant hand. Sam Fleet of St Giles, nr Phoenix Street.

  Sam has not quite disappeared. I know this because he came to visit me this morning.

  I was sitting alone on a bench in the press yard. I had paid Mr Rewse a bribe so that I might have some time to myself in the open air. I think he did it out of kindness as much as profit. Since my conviction, Rewse had allowed dozens of curious souls to tramp past my cell. They’d peered in through the grate, eager to see the gentleman as beast, trapped in his cage. They gossiped about me as if I could not hear or understand them. If I turned away it must be out of shame. If I held their gaze, they swore they saw the devil in my eyes. If I covered my face, or paced about the cell, or stared gloomily at the cold stone floor, then I must be in despair at my guilt, and the wretched state of my soul. Not one of them thought I looked innocent.

  Mr Rewse was different. He has met more cut-throat villains than anyone in England. I am no murderer, and he knows it. He also knows the way of the world. He won’t help me, but he is courteous, regretful. When I asked if I might sit in the yard for a while on my own he agreed and sent the turnkey to escort me out just before the dawn. I watched the light spread across the sky and felt the early spring sunshine upon my face. I closed my eyes. A few hawkers were calling their wares on the other side of the wall, but otherwise the city was at peace. And for once I liked it better that way.

  ‘Your cousin,’ the turnkey said.

  I opened my eyes and there was Sam. He looked smaller than I remembered, and younger, more like the link boy who had scampered through the streets than the young man I’d come to know at the Cocked Pistol.

  The turnkey strode away, calling over his shoulder. ‘One half-hour.’

  I had spent a great deal of time wondering what I would say to Sam should I ever see him again. I had ridden the waves of my feelings like a raft upon the ocean. Anger at his betrayal, naturally. Shame too, that I had let a boy of fourteen fool me for the second time. Most of all, I felt a profound sorrow for us both. I would most likely die for Sam’s crime tomorrow. But he would have to live with it.

  He was a boy – a clever, capable boy. Had he been born into a different family I was sure he would not have killed Joseph Burden – nor anyone else for that matter.

  I gestured for him to sit, but could think of nothing to say. And so we sat in silence for a long time.

 
‘Mr Hawkins,’ he said at last. He twisted his body so that he could look hard into my eyes. ‘I am very sorry.’

  To my surprise, it was enough. And a whole sentence, indeed – what progress! I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘You still have a choice, Sam. Even now. You do not have to follow your father’s path.’

  His shoulder sagged beneath my hand. It must seem impossible – a prison he could never escape.

  ‘You know, my father wanted me for the Church. I defied him.’

  Sam glanced at me, and then up at the walls around us, and the high windows barred with iron.

  ‘Yes, very well. Perhaps I am not the best example.’

  His lips twisted into a half-smile.

  I lit a pipe, thinking about Sam and wondering how I might help free him from his father’s murderous grip. My own life was ruined, but there was a chance I could save Sam’s. Wouldn’t that be the greatest revenge upon James Fleet? To turn his only son against him?

  ‘If you could do anything in the world, Sam – any occupation you wished. What would you choose?’

  ‘Surgeon,’ he replied, without hesitation.

  I was pleased with his answer. It seemed fitting somehow, that he should atone for the life he took by saving others.

  ‘I’d study the body,’ Sam added, eyes brightening. ‘Every detail. I think it is like . . . like a wondrous machine. Imagine – a corpse, its parts cut free, laid out and—’

  ‘—yes, yes,’ I said hurriedly. If I hanged on the morrow, and no one rescued my body from the anatomists, this would be my fate. The very thought left me light-headed. ‘A surgeon. Very good.’

  ‘Pa would never allow it.’

  I smiled to myself. Precisely.

  The bells of St Sepulchre sounded across the yard. Sam rose and straightened his jacket, squinting in the sun. ‘Mr Hawkins. Did you do it, sir?’

  I frowned at him, confused. He could not mean . . .

  We stared at each other. As the seconds passed and the bells tolled, confusion turned to horrified understanding. No. No. Not possible. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did you kill Mr Burden?’

  I half rose to my feet, then sat down again, hard. I didn’t know what to do or what to say.

  Sam saw my consternation. ‘You think I killed him?’

  ‘You did not?’

  ‘No.’ He winced, as if ashamed.

  ‘You swear, upon your soul?’

  ‘I swear, sir.’

  I lowered my head, trying to think, but all was confusion. How could this be? It made no sense. It wasn’t possible. ‘But your mother told me . . . your father says you are guilty.’

  He bit his lip. ‘I know. I told them I done it.’

  I sprang to my feet and he leaped back. My God he was fast when he needed to be. There were ten paces between us before I could reach out and grab him. ‘Why?’ I cried. ‘Why in God’s name would you say such a thing?’

  ‘I was supposed to kill him. Pa told me I had to. And . . . I wanted to . . .’

  ‘For your mother.’

  Tears glimmered in his eyes. ‘And for Pa. He was proud of me, when I told him. And the gang. They respect me now.’

  I think if Fleet had walked into the yard at that moment I would have beaten the life out of him. ‘And what – you’re content to see me hang, boy? So you might strut about St Giles?’

  ‘No, sir!’ he cried. ‘Pa swore you’d be safe. He promised. Said he’d paid you fifty pounds to stand trial. He said he was going to help you escape tonight, that it was all planned. He said you was angry with me. That I mustn’t come here . . .’

  ‘That is not the deal we made, Sam. He threatened Kitty’s life.’

  He flinched, as if struck.

  ‘That’s why I stood trial for murder. To keep Kitty safe.’

  He covered his face with his hands. ‘No . . . he wouldn’t. Pa wouldn’t . . .’ But of course, he would – and Sam knew it. I reached out and he clung to me, weeping in my arms. ‘He lied,’ he sobbed. ‘He lied to me.’

  ‘This is good news, Sam. You are not a murderer.’

  He broke free, wiping his eyes. ‘But it’s my fault you’re here.’

  No, it is your father’s, I thought, but he seemed so dejected I held my tongue. I sat back down upon the bench and he joined me, elbows on his knees, head down.

  ‘If I’d done what I promised. If I’d took the pillow and . . .’

  And smothered a man to death. ‘But Alice was there.’

  He nodded, miserable. ‘Tried to practise on Jenny. See how much noise it took to wake a girl. You can get quite close, Mr Hawkins,’ he added conversationally, as if describing the best way to approach a nervous horse. ‘Tried again, but Alice woke. Sleeps light. Screamed the house down.’

  There was more he wanted to say; I could see the struggle in him. I waited, letting him find his way through it. ‘Mr Hawkins,’ he confessed at last, in a whisper. ‘I’m glad Alice woke. I’m glad now, that I never killed Mr Burden.’

  I squeezed his shoulder.

  ‘I think she done it,’ he added. ‘Alice.’

  I froze. I had not even thought so far. I was still learning to accept the fact that Sam was innocent. But no, please God – not Alice, after all. Not Alice, sleeping under the same roof as Kitty. With her bloodstained gown dismissed as evidence by my own hand.

  ‘Sir,’ Sam said, tugging at my sleeve. ‘What now?’

  What indeed.

  ‘I must tell Pa—’

  ‘No! No. Let me think, Sam.’ I shuffled the possibilities in my head. It was too late to accuse Alice. I had told Rewse that the dress was a counterfeit. That Alice’s appearance in our house on the night of the murder was a story, nothing more – told to cast doubt on my own guilt.

  And how would I explain this sudden change in my confession, to Rewse, to Guthrie or Gonson – to the world? Ah, yes, sirs – I was led to believe that a young boy called Sam Fleet had murdered Mr Burden, at the request of his parents. I then struck a deal with the boy’s father – who is, by the way, a murderous gang captain – to stand trial for the murder. I was coerced into this agreement by Mr Fleet, who promised to kill the woman I love if I did not comply with his wishes. So you see – I am quite innocent and I trust you will now release me at once, although I have been convicted of murder and am set to be hanged on the morrow.

  They would not believe a word of it. It would sound like the desperate ravings of a mad man. I would be mocked and dismissed as a coward and a lunatic. Nothing worse than a man who cannot go to his death with dignity. And could the queen risk sending a pardon under such circumstances? And of course, for my story to make even a hint of sense, I would have to betray Fleet to the authorities. Such a betrayal would bring swift retaliation.

  Kitty.

  No, there was nothing to be gained from telling the truth – and a great deal to be lost. I must stay silent, at least for now. But it gave me a glimmer of hope, that she would be safe after tomorrow. If I was hanged, the killer would have no reason to feel threatened by Kitty. If the pardon came, the sentence would still be placed upon my name. And as Sam was innocent, Fleet would have no need to fret about what Kitty might say on the matter.

  ‘You have trapped yourself, sir,’ Sam said, when I had explained it all.

  ‘I suppose I have.’

  ‘Love,’ he said, as if it were some exotic disease. ‘Dangerous.’

  Yes, indeed. But hopefully not fatal.

  From the corner of my eye I saw the turnkey step into the yard. My fellow prisoners edged out through the door, blinking at the sun.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I whispered, guiding Sam from the yard. ‘I will not hang tomorrow.’

  ‘The queen?’

  I halted. Was a man allowed no secrets, damn it?

  ‘The walls are thin at the Pistol.’

  ‘Aye, especially with your ear to them.’ I cuffed him lightly. I’d only spoken of the queen to Kitty. Alone in our bed. What else had he heard? Little sod.
r />   As we reached the edge of the yard, he hesitated. ‘Mr Hawkins, sir,’ he said, shyly. ‘I think you would have made a good parson.’ He gave a short bow and vanished through the door.

  Who killed Joseph Burden? I cannot believe I have reached the end of my story and still cannot fathom the answer. Not Sam, after all. Then who? Those old names I had rejected return to haunt me. Ned Weaver. Stephen Burden. Judith Burden. And Alice Dunn – I suppose I must consider her again. Any one of them could have done it. And every one of them had good cause.

  I cannot believe it was Ned. He does not strike me as the sort of fellow who could let another man hang for his crime. He does not strike me as the sort of fellow who would murder a man, either.

  Kitty had been certain it was Judith. There was enough anger in her, true enough. But was there enough strength in her to fight her father? To stab him nine times before he could even call for help?

  Stephen had the most to gain. With his father dead he thought he would inherit a fortune. And though in truth he had inherited nothing, at least he was free to live as he chose after years of oppression and cruelty.

  Then there was Alice. Was this not the simplest explanation? She had stumbled into Sam’s attic room covered in blood and holding a knife in her hand. Burden had raped her, night after night. And yet he had also vowed to marry her, and she had said yes. She would have been mistress of the house. Mistress over Judith.

  I have spent the night pacing my cell, turning these thoughts over and over until they have become tangled together in an endless jumble of possibilities. My God, the four of ’em might have done it together for all I know.

  I can think on it no more. I can do no more. There is no time left to reflect upon the sins of others. In a few hours they will sling me on a cart and drag me through the streets to Tyburn. I must tend to my own soul.

  Even now, on the day of my hanging, I cannot believe that things have come to such a pass. Surely I will wake from this nightmare and find myself at home in the Cocked Pistol, with Kitty beside me. She will roll upon her side and put a hand upon my cheek. And she will say, ‘Be still, Tom. You’re safe. You were only dreaming.’